The more things change, the more I go gecko hunting
by Bright Morning Star
Summary: The Courier muses on the way of the world as he and his silent companion are out hunting. Post-war with NCR victorious.


The hot desert wind blows mournfully over my cap as I crouch on this little rock ledge. It's lonely out here in the Mojave. Besides my adopted brother and that funny robot floating by my head, ain't a soul as far as the eye can see in any which way. Unless you count the souls that died in the Great War, that is. They're all over the wasteland in everything and everywhere. Sulking in every burned-out hulk of a car and bus and truck. Drifting with the dust through all the looted remains of what used to be called buildings. Wandering along the crumbling concrete ribbons of roads that wind through more empty buildings and towns. And sometimes, what's left of their bodies still walks the earth. Other folks call them 'ghouls' or 'zombies'. I just call them target practice.

Whatever you happen call them, truth is they're really just what's left of some poor human being that didn't get the message it needed to die over two hundred long years ago. Worse than that they're a danger to everyone else out here, from some poor sharecropper trying to make a living to a weary NCR trooper trying to come home to his wife and kids. There's no bringing those bodies back to life and no amount of medicine or compassion can turn that feral mind back to human. So I make a point to deliver that message whenever I can. To put an end to what should have ended before my great-grandfather was born. Even if there ain't always time for a civilized burial of what's left.

Hell for that matter there ain't enough time for half of what else ought to be done. Mending clothing. Keeping up homes. Hell, even taking a bath is darn near a luxury. A man has to think real careful-like before he spends the day trying to do anything that won't put food on the table for his family the next day. It wears down on folks over time, makes them used to living like a Mole Rat instead of how a civilized person should. They give up trying to do anything but survive or relearn anything from the old days that made life good. Frustrates me to no end, but it's hard to blame them too much. What's the point of learning how to properly clean a rifle if you're working from can-see to can't-see just to keep the crops from dying? Or learning to read if every book you buy is one less Stimpack you can put in your first-aid kit. Some things from the old world gotta be let go, some things we won't see put back in our time. But heaven help us all if we go back to being a bunch of primitives throwing sticks at each other and eating half-cooked meat, with just a few herbs for medicine. That ain't no way for nobody to live. Matter of fact a body _won't_ live half as long as they ought to.

Maybe that will start to change now that Caesar and his 'Legions' got their eviction notice from the entire Mojave. That was sure a sight to see. Buncha old Enclave soldiers come back for one last hoo-rah, the Brotherhood thundering down in their power armor, a God-blessed Pre-War bomber soaring overhead like an avenging angel, the NCR all charging in loaded for bear, and of course yours truly all coming together to send a message to the tools of that woman-hating butcher who caused so much grief: "y'all _get_ out and y'all **stay** out". Remembering that day still brings a smile to my face any day of the week and Boone's too. For a sniper like us, any day that runs you out of space to carve kill notches on your rifle stock has to be a good day. But that weren't the end of everything like I figured. See, glorious victories don't win nearly as much as I thought. Not to say that I didn't mind the victory parade in front of a cheering crowd or the medals. Standing a couple Legionnaires up against the wall for a firing squad on account of murdering innocent people…well, that was downright therapeutic for a sniper and his buddy. For all that, though, the land's still infested with all manner of nasty critters that'll eat you for dinner if they get half a chance. Clean water's still too blessed scarce. And the trade routes don't keep themselves safe long, no matter how bad you slaughtered the last group of yahoos what thought they were the baddest hombres in the Mojave.

So the lonesome road goes back around to where it started and then on to eternity. Us two snipers with their little pet robot all staking out a good hunting spot for Golden Geckos from back when the two of us could barely rub two caps together. Them big fifty-cals we carried all over the Mojave got one last fix-up, then traded out for our old hunting rifles what don't cost nearly so much to shoot. Had to be done. Still feels like I traded out a pretty young girl from the Strip for some old grandmother, but I guess it ain't near as big a sacrifice as some folks have had to make out here in the wastes.

Maybe I'll figure out some bright idea in the future where we can make enough caps to bring out the fifties again, or else maybe Boone will. We don't usually say a lot between each other but I know he'll speak up if a light bulb goes off in his head. So until then, those Geckos' hides and eggs will fetch a good price in Goodsprings, and their meat means free dinner for a few days. One hollow-point bullet apiece straight to the head drops them like a stone. Even better is the little leg-chewers ain't smart enough to shoot back.

Speakin' of the devil, here comes a whole pack of the lizards over the hill. I bet Boone a six-pack of Nuka Cola on who missed the first shot and I don't plan to go thirsty this evening.


End file.
